


Sherlock Holmes's Late Morning Rejuvenative

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Morning Sex, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 00:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7954564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Folliwing almost immediately upon the heels of Tweed's <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/7509661">Dr. Watson's Early Evening Restorative</a>, some reciprocal morning smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Holmes's Late Morning Rejuvenative

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tweedisgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweedisgood/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Dr. Watson's Early Evening Restorative](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7509661) by [tweedisgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweedisgood/pseuds/tweedisgood). 



I awoke from a deep, dreamless sleep and found my companion long gone. The other side of the bed was warmed only by the late morning sun, but I could hear soft sounds in the sitting room that suggested he was only on the other side of the door. The week’s labors seemed to have fallen from my shoulders, and now my only concern was reciprocation. I owed him one. Possibly two.

I pulled on a dressing gown that drooped a little long in the sleeves and emerged; Holmes was seated at his desk, bent over a sheet of figures, but he looked up when he heard me. He hadn’t bothered to dress either, still in his mouse-colored dressing gown and nightshirt, so perhaps he hadn’t been up very long. His bare feet were crossed underneath his chair.

“Good morning,” said he, smiling. “There’s coffee.”

“You didn’t stay,” I said, crossing the room to embrace him from behind.

Holmes glanced at the clock and covered my hands with his own. “No,” he agreed, “I did not lie abed until ten in the morning as some of us are wont to do.”

I kissed his ear and squeezed his shoulders. “Some of us were exhausted by our efforts,” I said, breathing in the smell of his tobacco and his pomade and soap, “and those of our dearest companion.”

I felt him smile. He turned his head, nuzzling his unshaven cheek against mine, and said, “And I don’t blame you for it.”

“The point is,” I said, kissing him again and stroking my hands down his firm chest, “I’ve a debt to pay. Would you care to come back to bed?”

Holmes ‘hmm’ed in contemplation, lifting one hand to card through my hair. Beneath the desk, his knees drifted apart. I slipped a hand beneath his dressing gown lapel and dragged my fingers across his left nipple. It tightened at my touch, peaking beneath the fabric of his nightshirt. His back arched very slightly. I pinched the nipple gently, then harder, until his breath left him in a little gust and he said, “Well, I—“

“Or,” said I, lowering my voice, “since I see that you are busy, I could just pay it now.”

His knees parted further and he said softly, “Yes, I suppose,” turning his head. I kissed him slowly, deepening the kiss in increments, until his mouth was wide and his breathing heavy through his nose. He tasted of coffee and his morning pipe. As I chased the flavor of it, I worried his nipple through his nightshirt and dropped my other hand to his lap, where his prick was just starting to take an interest. The soft bulk of his groin filled my hand, and I felt him swell. I was bent well over his shoulder, cradling his head in the crook of my elbow. I wouldn't be able to maintain this particular arrangement for long, but for now it would do.

Holmes groaned into my mouth; I squeezed his prick gently until it was full and stiff, standing up beneath his nightshirt, and I could wrap my hand all the way around it. He broke the kiss to pant softly into my ear instead, his fingers clenching in the sleeves of my dressing gown. He tipped his head back against my shoulder and asked, "Did you check the door?"

"I did not," I admitted, glancing at it. It was closed but I doubted it was locked, if coffee had already been brought up. I did not stop fondling him, all the same, and was gratified to feel his cock twitch in encouragement.

"Oh," he said, and protested no more. Instead he set to nibbling at my ear and throat, which always sets my blood afire.

I would have to pick up the pace, if I were going to give him his due properly without becoming selfish. I let go of his prick and tugged his nightshirt up to bare it, letting the fabric bunch around his midsection. He sagged in his chair, knees wide, cock jutting up from between his thighs. His self-control last night would help me in my endeavours; he was already ruddy and leaking. I kissed his temple and took him in hand once more, easing his hood down and up again. His heels slid on the carpet.

"Ah, John," he whispered.

"Hm?"

He squeezed my biceps, rolling his head against my shoulder. The back of his chair dug into my chest, but one sacrifices comfort for a particular look of pleasure on the face of one's belovéd. I kissed his exposed throat, worrying the tender skin beneath his ear, at the same time working the length of his prick through my hand. 

I was set to carry on like that until he came off, as it seemed it might not take long, but then he said, "Could you-- oh, John, would--"

"Do you want my mouth?" I rumbled.

He nodded, grateful. "Desperately."

I grinned and let him go, straightening my back with a groan. He pushed his chair back as I stepped aside and turned it on one leg so that he faced away from the door. I got to my knees before him, my leg no longer stiff as it had been last night, and skimmed my palms up his thighs. His belly quivered, his prick twitching with eagerness. My mouth watered as I leaned forward.

The thick salt taste of him burst upon my tongue and I heard myself moan. My own prick throbbed beneath my nightshirt, teased by the drag of insubstantial fabric. I curled both hands around his shaft as I took him deep into my mouth, my eyes sliding shut. His hands landed on my shoulders, one tangling in the collar of the dressing gown, the other sliding up the back of my neck into my hair.

"Oh, John," he sighed. His hips hitched as I pulled back, and he hissed through his teeth when I sank down again. In a few moments I had found my rhythm, working him in and out of my mouth, my teeth shielded and my throat relaxed. I love the feel of him stretching my lips. He trembles beneath me, his thighs tensing and his hands unsteady as he rides the motion of my head.

He let go of my hair for a moment to grab my hand and guide it beneath his nightshirt. I pushed it up as far as it would go, though the fabric was trapped beneath his arse, and rubbed my palm roughly up the plane of his ribs. My fingers found his nipple and pinched hard; he bit back a cry, his back bowing. I fondled him and rolled him between my fingers as I sucked, trying to coordinate the sensations. My other hand moved easily up and down his shaft, meeting my lips on every stroke. His breathing was harsh, and if I looked up I knew I would meet his gaze. He always watched until he was on the verge, and only as his orgasm swept through him would he allow his eyes to close.

I pulled back and worked him with hands alone for a few moments, resting my jaw, while he carded his fingers through my hair and blessed me, told me how beautiful and splendid I was. He was close to his peak, his prick swelling in my hand and his thighs straining wide, and I did not want to disappoint him by missing it. I took a breath and dove down again, filling my senses with his bliss. His fingers tightened into a fist in my hair and one of his heels found my thigh as a place to rest and press. The chair's front legs would have left the ground if I hadn't been leaning on him. He was swearing, almost wordless, and then all at once he went silent, breath caught, hips rising. He filled my mouth, throbbing; I held onto him as he shuddered.

"John," he groaned, sagging back, and soothed my abused scalp with gentle fingers. I pulled back carefully, swallowed, and wiped my mouth on my sleeve. It was his dressing gown I was wearing, anyway. He cradled my face and bent to kiss me, deep and reverent. He loves the taste of himself in my mouth. I moaned, cupping his ribs, squeezing his thigh.

He crawled down to meet me, pressing me onto my back upon the carpet, and it was much like it had been the night before, but now he used his hands as well as the weight of his body to bring me to glory. It didn't take long; he kissed me and frigged me and whispered adoration against my hungry mouth, until I was shuddering with ecstasy and spilling myself over his fingers.

I caught my breath again in between his gentle kisses, smoothing my hands up and down his long back, disarranging his already rumpled nightclothes. When I had recovered myself, he pulled away and moved to clean off his hand with the hem of my nightshirt. 

“Cheers,” I muttered. 

Holmes laughed and kissed me again. “Come on,” said he, “up you get, then. No more laying about.”

“You put me down here,” I protested, sitting up, and caught him before he got away for another deep kiss. 

He grasped my hands and helped me to my feet with a grunt. “You put yourself there,” he replied. 

When I was upright, I gathered him into my arms and peppered his face with kisses. He squirmed and laughed, off balance, catching hold of my shirt’s shoulders.

“What’s for breakfast?” I asked. “I am feeling wholly invigorated, ready for anything today. Have you got a case on? Anything that needs investigated?”

Holmes ran his hands through my hair. “I'm sure I could find something,” said he, smiling broadly. “I wouldn't waste your energy for the world.”


End file.
